French Perfume
by aruyo
Summary: America doesn't much care for perfume, but France has rubbed off on her in more ways than one.


**French Perfume.**

* * *

Amelia wasn't a perfume kind of girl.

She didn't put much value in smelling good. Sure, she bathed regularly, but what point was there in putting on fragrance if she was just going to sweat it off during the daytime?

Contrary to popular belief, she was a busy person.

Besides, she didn't have anyone she wanted to impress. No one she wanted to dazzle with pretty smells. Guys disinterested her, and the same went for most women. Well, _most_ women.

"Mn, _Amérique, _why don't you ever use the perfumes I send you for holidays?"

She inhaled deeply as the French woman straddling her ran a tongue down her neck. If she were anyone else, Amelia would think it was gross, but this was France. She had a lot of _wicked_ talents, literally.

"They all smell gross," she admitted candidly when the other woman allowed her a moment of breath. France's brow ticked, and in seconds, it was her mouth that was being assaulted.

"Those were very expensive perfumes, _mon chaton_," the woman breathed between heavy open-mouth kisses. "It seems you still need some educating. A pity England never taught you…"

Amelia felt her face scorch with embarrassment. She never did like talking about her old guardian while doing these sorts of things. France giggled at the sight, nuzzling Amelia's curls.

"She probably thought them improper," was her consensus. Amelia found it in herself to shrug, still flustered.

"Her people enjoyed them, but she never had the taste for it."

"Such a prude," France said softly, her breath ghosting over Amelia's collarbone. The younger nation drew in a lungful of oxygen, beginning to feel lightheaded. And, well, hot.

"Shouldn't we be getting back to the meeting?" She asked. In response, the other woman nipped her lightly. She responded with a muffled yelp. That was going to leave a mark.

"I suppose so, but it is really too fun to tease you." She pouted. Amelia huffed.

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure they'll notice if both of us are gone. It's going to be even worse if I show up like this…" She gestured to her blouse, which was popped almost completely open, and to the red mark blooming on her neck, surrounded by lipstick marks. France chuckled maliciously.

"_Angleterre_ would be rather unhappy to see you in this state, wouldn't she?" Her deep blue eyes took on a malevolent gleam. "That would be amusing to see…"

"Well, forget about it," Amelia hissed, beginning to button up her blouse again. It occurred to her that the collar wasn't high enough to hide the marks. She groaned and grabbed her purse, thrown haphazardly to the side, to search for some foundation for cover. France sighed.

"You've always been so modest, _Amérique_. It's hardly noticeable."

"Yeah, well." Finding her compact, she began applying a liberal brush to the darkening patch. "I don't want them thinking that I spend all of my afternoons making out with people in broom closets."

"But that's what we were doing, yes?"

"But I don't want people to know!" Amelia snapped. France gave an unladylike snort.

"Well, I suppose it is in your discretion. Shall we go, then?"

Amelia frowned, eyeing her companion critically. The messy curls, crooked suit jacket, and heavy lidded eyes. Sighing, she gesticulated for France to come closer. The woman obeyed, her expression bemused.

"What is it? Did you not want to get there on time?"

"Of course I do," Amelia scoffed. "But I can't have you going in like that. C'mere."

France obliged. When she was within arm's length, Amelia set to work straightening her jacket, brushing her hand through any rampant curls, and then, finally, patting her cheek lightly.

"Come on. Get with it. Act professional."

France rolled her eyes at the patronizing tone, batting away the younger's hands. "Oh please. I am perfectly capable of getting 'with it' myself, thank you very much."

"Then do it," Amelia replied testily, dragging her out into the hall as she spared a panicked glance at her watch. "Because we'll be late if we don't get a move on right now."

"No manners these days," France grumbled, but allowed herself to be tugged.

They arrived back on time, but that spared them no strange glances as they took their seats opposite each other on the table. The meeting of G8 began, with England presenting first.

Amelia allowed herself to relax into the comfortable fabric of her chair, closing her eyes as the woman's accented voice flooded the room. All speed bumps aside, this was shaping up to be a nice afternoon.

"America. America!"

She blinked dazedly at the voice coming from her left. She hadn't seen anyone in that chair. Was it a ghost? Panicked, she turned around, her mouth opened for a scream. When she saw that it was just that girl who lived above her, she let out a breath instead.

"Canadia! Don't scare me like that."

"It's _Canada_," the girl replied testily. Oh. Amelia flashed her best 'contrite' face. The girl, not buying it, waved her off tetchily. "Whatever. I don't care anymore. I was going to ask what you were doing with France. You both look kind of out of it today. Italy said you guys were _exercising_, whatever that meant…"

Panicked, Amelia fished for an excuse- something, anything that could possibly explain. "We were, uh, trying to- I mean, you know, we had to go and-" She stopped at Canada's clear look of confusion, deflating. "Yeah, we were exercising."

"Oh. Well, that's good, I guess." Her eyes suddenly narrowed and she leaned in. Amelia barely held back a help, wondering if she could see the mark on her collarbone beneath the makeup. Was she psychic or something? But in the end, the girl merely sniffed quietly to herself before leaning back.

Amelia leaned back as well, relieved. Dodged a bullet there…

Canada looked at her timidly. "Sorry. For a second, I thought I smelled perfume. It's just that you don't usually wear that kind of stuff… Anyways, it smells really nice! … America?"

She watched on bemusedly as her sister turned bright red and began stuttering.

From across the room, France grinned to herself.

"Would you gits stop talking and pay attention to my presentation? And Amelia, stop banging your head against the desk or you'll break it. This conference isn't made of money. Frog, stop laughing!"

So began another G8 meeting.

* * *

**Yeah, I don't know. I just wanted to write some FrUs. But with girls. And broom closets.**

**Oh god they're going to make me remove this aren't they. asdfjdl;gdfg.**

**You should review. **


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